


Lazarus

by Validity_For_Dissonance



Category: His Dark Materials (TV), His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Book: The Secret Commonwealth, Dadriel, Everyone Needs A Hug, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Post-His Dark Materials, Strained Human-Daemon Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:21:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29355642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Validity_For_Dissonance/pseuds/Validity_For_Dissonance
Summary: At twenty years old, Lyra is no longer protected by the virtue of scholastic sanctuary, and the Magisterium's antagonism towards her is hardly veiled anymore. Her life is openly in danger, and with new mysteries that seem to emerge out of nowhere, she discovers that her days of investigating Dust and the taboos of experimental theology are far from over.And to make things more complicated, the last person she expected to see again has returned to Jordan College.
Relationships: Lord Asriel & Lyra Belacqua
Comments: 10
Kudos: 46





	1. Petunias

Lyra undoes her hair and braids it yet again. Her fingers tremble, strewing together dark, uneven strands before tying them together with an old ribbon. She never knows what to do with herself when nervousness strikes her anymore, though images of years past do flutter behind her eyelids; they carry with them the feeling of winds that caress her hair and skin, and scrapes that mar her knees with crusted blood; and if she strains her imagination a bit more, she will remember how beautiful Oxford looked as she jumped from rooftop to rooftop.

She is far too old for such antics now. Maturity paints its heavy impression on her face with strokes of loss and heartache. Both of them are old companions at this point, and Lyra knows better than to try to run away from their unyielding grip.

How tempting it is to try, though.

Pan manages it, at least. Every night, he leaves through her window, leaving her lonelier and colder than she thought she could ever feel. Her estrangement from her demon—her very soul—is still too novel a heartache to process completely.

But tonight, the negative emotions that war inside her heart carry an added weight. One that has taken her by such a great shock that upon hearing the news, she convinced herself that she was in fact dreaming.

It can't be true.

There is no way.

There is _no way_ that Lord Asri — her fa — _he_ could be back.

“He died,” she whispers breathlessly, though the last word becomes trapped in her throat before it can be rightfully heard by the walls and portraits in her empty room.

Her fingers grip onto the heavy book in her lap, indenting its pages with the force of her clutch.

Ghosts don’t come back. Not in their physical form. They haunt the recesses of a restless mind and the crevices of a broken heart, but they don’t come back.

Nor does she want them to come back.

But the whispers across the campus have grown too loud to be ignored. They all speak of a miraculous survival; of heroship or of villainy; of a martyr that failed to be killed, and of a mortal that fought the immortal until he himself was deprived of a timely death.

Oh, how she denied everything that she heard. Denied it with the vehemence of the most ardent of skeptics.

But one day, and upon crossing the short distance between Jordan College and St. Sophia’s College, she caught an unmistakable profile right before it disappeared into the department of experimental theology, and all doubt was washed from her and replaced with certainty.

Lord Asriel is alive. And he is back in Jordan College.

When she saw him that day, Lyra broke down in furious tears behind a stone column, a fist pressed against her mouth to dampen her sobs. Visions, unbidden and unwelcome, overwrought her mind. She remembered how much she had loved him, and how dreadfully he had betrayed her. She remembered Roger. She remembered… she remembered the abyss. And it was all too much for her to take.

Now, a whole week after the incident, she still evades him with an unshakeable resolve. Lord Asriel might have returned to Jordan College, but her father will never return to her life.

 _What ifs_ and _hows_ and _whys_ still deprive her of sleep, nonetheless. And the thought of him instantly overwhelms her with the urge to scream and cry. But she suppresses everything and is crippled by the weight of it all.

 _Why hasn’t he tried to talk to me?_

The question came to her one night and refused to leave, even at the attack of logic and incredulousness.

Lyra does go out of her way to evade him. But why doesn’t he go out of his way to find her?

How silly it is that after all of this time and all of that betrayal she _still_ seeks in him a loving and caring parental figure.

She slams the book shut.

“Stupid,” she curses herself, standing on her feet and pacing in her small room. “You're so _stupid_ , Lyra…” she digs the base of her palm against one eye and heaves a shaky breath.

This will not do.

She needs fresh air.

And so she strides to the door and rips it open. She almost collides into a broad chest clad in familiar dark wool, and her eyes widen instantly as they trace up the figure until they are met with an azure gaze that is just as shocked as her own. Tears are quick to build in her eyes.

“Lyra—"

Her first instinct is to slam the door shut against him, but he is quick, and he raises a palm to stop the door from closing.

She cannot handle this. Not today, not ever. She turns away, back into the room, trying to ignore the sound of his footfalls as he follows.

“Lyra,” he tries again, his voice breaking mid-utterance.

“No, don’t,” she says, shaking her head forlornly and raising her hands to envelop her face as she realizes that there is not escape. Her forehead rests against the wall and her shoulders sag. And she refuses to look at him. “You can’t do this to me, you _can’t_ …”

Lord Asriel swallows a heavy lump that is lodged in his throat and he exhales deeply from his nose. His stare burns holes into the back of her skull, and he clenches and unclenches his fist in pent-up frustration.

“I can’t claim to understand what you’re going through,” he begins, his every word tightly strung and laden. “But I spent years trapped in a limbo between life and death with only your face to keep me sane. If you would just _look at me_ ,” he stresses the last few words yet they still feel restrained.

But it does get her to turn to him, slowly and uncertainly, and when she finally faces him, her features are twisted in misery and rebellion and mistrust. The way that his face softens and falls tells her that this hurts him. _Good_ , she thinks, albeit being heady with confusion and uncertainty.

“You have grown so much,” he whispers, taking a step forward. When she startles and retreats, he instantly stops dead in his tracks.

Lyra _has_ grown so much. Not only due to the passage of time adding to her age, but also by the loss of everyone she once held dear. She can’t say Lord Asriel has changed much in appearance since she last saw him. Perhaps the limbo in which he was trapped was an abstraction, stripped from space and time. Perhaps it was a purgatory whose end entailed a return to real-life suffering.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

All of her questions never make it to her lips. She simply burns him with an accusatory stare and _waits_.

Stelmaria shuffles as she looks around, evidently confused. “Pantalaimon…?”

“Gone,” Lyra says briskly.

Both man and his demon are taken aback. “Gone?” repeats Lord Asriel, a hint of disturbance marring his voice.

“He will be back.” She says it so nonchalantly that it contrasts miserably with her clear distress at her demon’s constant ventures away from her.

“I never…” Lord Asriel says softly, shaking his head and pinching the bridge of his nose. “I never intended for you to suffer so greatly, Lyra.”

 _This_ breaks the ice of her facade. She lets out a cynical laugh that much resembles the release of a breath as she struggles to condense her anger into comprehensible words. “You never _intended_ anything for me!” Her eyes glisten behind a watery sheen, though they are unyielding. "I was never something for you to even partially consider, much less to influence your _intents_!”

Lord Asriel grimaces at the cruelty of her words, yet it seems that he cannot find it in himself to say anything to the contrary.

At his lack of immediate response, she continues, “I loved you—I _adored_ you—and you—you _snubbed_ and _neglected_ me! I was never more of a nuisance to you, don’t you dare deny it!” her voice break as a large tear falls down one cheek. She sniffles and continues. “You— _killed_ my best friend right in front of me!”

“Lyra…” his voice is small and his eyes are heavy.

"You would have killed _me_ if you had to!”

“Lyra!”

“Don't deny it!” she yells, a sob bleeding into her syllables. “Don't you dare deny it, Lord Asriel Belacqua! No one would do that to someone they love! No one!”

Against his better judgement, he breaks the distance between them and gathers her in his arms, holding her against his chest in a bid to silence her words that are as sharp as the most lethal of daggers. She fights tooth and nail against his embrace, hitting him and pushing at his chest.

“I _hate_ you, I hate you so much you have no idea!” she sobs. “I hate you, why did you have to come back?!”

He only holds her closer, one hand supporting her head against his shoulder and the other arm enveloping her back. He can no longer hold back the tears, though they fall silently.

“I wish you stayed dead! Why did you come back? What did I do to deserve this?”

Her strikes are getting weaker, but her words are no less lethal and there is only so much that he can handle.

Lord Asriel grabs Lyra's face and shakes her. “Lyra, stop!” he demands roughly. She instantly complies, shocked, and her bloodshot eyes get the chance to take in the despair in his own stricken gaze.

“Everything,” he breathes, his grip on her face almost painful, “everything I have done was because I loved you. You influenced all of my decisions. All of the suffering you endured at my hands, and that I endured with you, was because I wanted only the best for you.” He wipes at the fresh tears that descend from her distrustful eyes and feels the futility of his words. “I love you,” he tries again.

But she just shakes her head slowly. “Your love is tainted. It is toxic,” she says, as sad for him as because of him. “If this is what your love is capable of doing, then I don’t want it.” She never knew heartbreak could manifest so clearly on his face. “I would rather you hate me, or ignore me, or whatever have you.”

Lyra removes herself from his embrace, and his arms fall listlessly by his sides.

“Please leave,” she whispers.

“I just wanted a world where you could be happy and free,” he tries for the last time.

The laugh that leaves her lips is so cynical and embittered and _not_ - _Lyra._ She raises her arms at either side and shrugs, a hollow smile twisting her lips. “Do I look happy or free?”

He has no response.

“Leave,” she repeats. And he does. But not before sparing her one last glance, which she dutifully avoids meeting.

She closes the door behind him and rests her back against it, sliding down until she is on the floor, holding her knees and sobbing away the repressed pain of years on end.

Outside her window, Pan is still nowhere to be found, and the petals of the purple hyacinths that she grows in a pot have withered and decayed.

The night has grown two folds colder, and her soul, infinitely lonelier.

And in the weakness of the moment, she regrets sending him away.


	2. Daffodils

She is as silent as can be.

Lyra sneaks on the tips of her toes, her saddle shoes barely touching the ground as she makes her way to the retiring room.

It is a large risk that she’s taking. Not merely because the retiring room is prohibited for her, but because Pan is not with her; and while a demon that is as small as a butterfly or a mouse can be easily said to be hiding within the folds of its human's clothes, a pine marten would be much too conspicuous for that to be a believable lie.

Suspicions would be quick to rise, and she has learned to fear their consequences.

Her nerves tingle with anticipation—it is a heady combination of excitement and dread, and she almost disregards the unpleasantness of it all by painting it with the distorted brushstroke of nostalgia. After all, it has been a long time since she found herself on a furtive mission.

But this time, she seeks the room by its door and not its window; and she listens in instead of sneaking a glance.

It is quiet. Not even the cackle of a fireplace breaks the stillness, and the wintry air of a February night makes it unlikely that anyone would sit in the cold.

Lyra braces herself before she nudges the door open. Distantly, she hears Pan’s encouraging words that add to her confidence, and fails to decide whether they are a memory, or an illusory form of self-comfort.

 _Not the time for that, Lyra_.

Her task is simple. But she has to focus and remain quiet or else it would fail miserably.

_Where is it?_

The naphtha lamps are too dim for her to make out the details of her surroundings, and without the aid of a burning fire, she can see the shadows of objects better than the objects themselves.

_A small vial, with a curved neck and a bulbous bottom. Should be somewhere on a shelf — or perhaps not. Somewhere in the center, if the Master wishes to demonstrate it — on the oval table. Or maybe on his desk?_

Yet everywhere she looks, she fails to find it.

Frustration is steadily growing inside her.

The thick carpet renders the sound of her footfalls silent, and she takes advantage of that as she rushes from corner to corner, all to no avail. She simply can’t find it.

From the periphery of her vision, she catches the movement of a shadow, causing her to freeze at once.

Her heart leaps to her throat and her eyes grow wide. She doesn’t move an inch.

From behind her comes an all too familiar voice.

“For some reason I thought you’d have outgrown this tendency of yours to be where you’re not supposed to be."

For all its familiarity, his voice still triggers in her a sense of disbelief. And slowly, she turns to find Lord Asriel regarding her with a raised eyebrow and unsmiling lips. His eyes, though—and her heart tugs painfully at this—are warm. Almost fond. But she refrains from using that word.

They lock eyes; hers are shocked, while his combine impatience with amusement.

“What are you doing here?” she eventually voices—softly, as though she didn’t quite intend to ask.

Lord Asriel lets out a small snort. “Isn't that my question to ask? You do know our students are not allowed here; never mind female students from St Sophia's.”

At the defensive rebellion in her posture, he notes that she is unlikely to answer him. Even though he missed seven years of her life, Lyra will forever be Lyra—at least, in this one regard, if not anything else.

And so, with an arm crossed behind his back and the other holding onto a small object within his hand, he moves leisurely across the room, minding the way her eyes remain glued to him, much like a wary prey would assess its predator.

“I do believe I know what you’re looking for,” he muses. With a flick of his fingers, he exposes the clear glass vial in his hold as he assesses it. Lyra stiffens, and he has his answer. He turns to her with the vial displayed clearly for her sight. “The steward tells me you have taken a great liking to rosewater. An odd interest, if I may say.”

“It’s a beloved perfume among us girls,” she counters. “Especially now that it’s become so rare, I figured I had to have one.”

He approaches her until he is standing right in front of her. The tension stringing her form instantly increases.

“Come one, Lyra,” he says lowly. “What is the real reason?”

Cursing herself for the millionth time for losing her ability to lie convincingly, she decides to change tactics.

And so she squares her shoulders and looks him straight in the eye. “Only if you tell me why your department has confiscated every last vessel of rosewater.”

Lord Asriel sighs, running his tongue over the roof of his mouth. “That information is classified.”

_Classified. Secrets. The North. Dust. Intercision. Roger. Lies, lies, lies._

With great distaste, Lyra twists her face and turns away.

“I'll find out on my own, then,” she mutters, brushing past him as she heads towards the door.

But he latches onto her arm before she can leave, and she turns quickly on her heel with an angry look.

“We're not repeating the same scenario from eight years ago, Lyra,” he says with an infuriating amount of calm that nonetheless carries with it an unsubtle warning. “I won’t have it.”

She jerks her arm out of his grip. “I recall it a bit differently. Last time, it was _me_ running after you while _you_ did everything in your power to evade me. Now it’s the opposite. I’m sure if we stay clear of each other’s paths, we won’t make each other suffer nearly half as much as before.”

“You don’t get it, do you?” he says, obstructing her path one more time as she tries to walk away. “Lyra, it doesn’t matter how you go about this. You have already built quite the unfavorable reputation for yourself with the Magisterium, and if they find out you’re investigating rosewater, they will have no qualms about—"

At his silence, she breathes out once, controlled and challenging, and says, “About what?”

Lord Asriel’s visage is still solemn, but the drop of his Adam’s apple as he swallows is indicative enough of what he means. He looks away.

For a split second, her heart softens. It does so in a guilt-ridden way, much like when she takes a joke too far with a casual friend and thus feels compelled to fix it.

Except this isn’t a casual friend, and she was not joking.

Lyra sighs, considers something for a moment, and says, “They're already suspicious of me.”

At that, his gaze snaps in her direction. It’s a subtle movement, but the interest it holds is evident.

Crossing her arms over her chest and turning away to examine the old chest in which she once hid, she continues, “The new Master doesn’t like me. And you know how much how worships the Magisterium. It’s like it’s his whole life.” With an index, she wipes an invisible speck of dust from the rosewood lid, and after some hesitation, she whispers, “He's sending me away.”

His rage is not something she accounted for. At once, Lord Asriel snaps with, “He's what?!” and suddenly, firm hands are grabbing onto her arms as he forces her to face him.

“He's kicking me out of Jordan college,” she repeats. It is the first time she vocalizes it, and it makes her eyes sting. “He says my room will be used as a dorm room for the students, but I know that’s not all there is to it. He doesn’t like me, and I don’t know if his view of me reflects the Magisterium’s view, but…” she pauses, the tears collecting in her tired, tired eyes. “I'm scared,” she whispers.

At the intensity of his gaze, she remembers when he once rebuked her for crying and told her to act stronger. And so she shuts herself from him once again, schooling her features and quickly wiping at her tears.

But his hands catch hers and move them away from her face. “Stop,” he says quietly. “Don't put up an act for my benefit.”

“You used to say…”

“I know,” he interrupts. “I was wrong.” Leveling his voice, he says, “Lyra, no one is sending you away. I will make sure of that.”

And his words sound so genuine and concerned. They sound like everything she hoped she would hear when she was a child, and she has spent so long — _too_ long — trying to move past all of those feelings. He has no right to string them out of her again. Not after she had buried them twenty feet underground and cut off the safety bell.

She steps back and says, “I can take care of myself.”

“I'm obligated to take care of you, too.”

“Under what authority?”

“As your father—“

“I thought you never called yourself a father?” she interrupts calmly.

He winces.

“In any case, I have no father,” she continues when he refuses to speak. “My father died the night I brought him the alethiometer. Lord Asriel died in the Abyss, seven years ago. As for you…” she stops momentarily, looking him up and down, before dispassionately saying, “I have no idea who you are.”

The breath he releases is shaky. He runs a hand over his face and rests it over his mouth as he appears to be a million miles away, lost in his thoughts.

Eventually, he tiredly says, “Will you keep punishing me until the day I die?”

“And after,” she resolutely says. “I can’t guarantee how many lives you have anymore.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“Now you sound more like yourself.”

“And you sound _nothing_ like yourself,” he snaps. “What happened to you, Lyra? What happened to your passion and your curiosity? Your love for narrative, your _imagination_?” He fails to see her flinch at the last word. He continues, "I used to see the stars as they burned behind your eyes, but now all I find is… _rubble_ and debris—“

With her heart pounding in her ears, she stops him, “Are you quite finished?”

“No,” he asserts. “You go on and on about me being a lifeless marionette when you are hardly any better yourself. For Heaven’s sake, you don’t even have your demon with you!”

Here, she catches the disappointed, if not distressed, look that Stelmaria affords her. Lyra looks away quickly, ashamed.

“We've been though a lot,” Lyra says quietly. “You don’t have the right to judge us.”

This conversation seems to carry an invisible, yet unwieldy weight. It forces him to sit on the edge of the table with both hands splayed atop its surface as he tries to find the right words to diffuse her hatred towards him.

“I don’t mean to judge you, Lyra,” he says. “I simply wish you’d trust me enough to tell me what happened with you and Pan. And why you’re so interested in rosewater all of a sudden.”

The air is frigid around them; it is laden with secrecy and wariness, and with the quickly dropping temperatures, Lyra wishes more than anything to turn to the comfort of her bed, where she can bury herself beneath the covers and have pleasant dreams of a boy she once knew and loved.

“It's difficult to trust someone who doesn’t trust me,” she says.

“So this is what it’s going to take?” Here, he raises the glass vial before her again. “Do you want me to give you the rose water so you can conduct your own investigation?”

Resolutely, she says, “I won’t stop until I find out what it is. With or without your help.”

He sighs. “And why not simply consult your alethiometer? You do still have it, don’t you?”

“… Reading it has become rather difficult.”

Another question is reflected in his eyes, but she quickly deflects. “So will you give it to me?”

The look on his face is one that she hates. It is of haughty condescension, and it makes her feel like a child. “Just what do you plan to do with it once you get it?”

“I'll figure it out once I do,” she replies defensively.

“Right,” he deadpans before pushing himself into a standing position and walking around the room, tracing different devices with the tips of his fingers as he goes. “You need an empirical design for an experiment. And you indeed scientific instruments. You can’t poke the proverbial lion with a stick to learn its response — that would give far too much room for confirmation bias. Simply put, you’ll get nowhere alone.”

“But I won’t be alone,” she counters. “I would still use the alethiometer. I just think I would get a clearer answer if I had a better sense of what it is that I’m asking about.”

Lord Asriel hums, digging his hands into his pockets as he approaches her again. “You need books to understand it, I presume?” Her silence is quite telling, and so he continues, “This is why experimental theologians often work alongside alethiometer readers. Deduction and induction cooperate to narrow down the possibilities, and the answer becomes much easier to find. But without an empirical experiment, and without your intuitive skill at reading the compass?” He clicks his tongue. “You're still likely to end up at the mercy of confirmation bias. Even with your convoluted books.”

Her head is starting to hurt. Her irritation at him knows no bounds at the moment, and nothing about this entire conversation makes sense to her.

“So what are you saying?” she says impatiently.

He, on the other hand, has grown calmer, and his blue eyes have regained their brilliant glint that is reminiscent of every time he was struck with a great idea.

“I'm saying,” he begins slowly, “that I don’t trust the scholars in this college. And with the new staff, I find my work even more narrowed down and obscured.” Looking her in the eye, he says lowly, “But oh, what I would do to have a person who could read the alethiometer on my side.”

Her mouth falls agape and her eyes widen.

“You want…”

“Yes.”

But it doesn’t register with her the first time, and so she repeats incredulously, _“You want me to work with you?”_

Rolling his eyes, but not without fondness, he says, “It’s much better than sending you off on your own where you’re much more likely to get yourself killed.” Then, solemnly, he says, “I made a grave mistake in not trusting you last time. And look where it got us. I’d like to rectify it now.”

She stares at his extended hand for a long period of time. Opposing thoughts battle inside her head, with emotions making an already difficult decision infinitely more complicated.

Lyra doesn’t want to trust him. She knows she can’t.

But she also has no allies. Her enemies seem to grow in number while she becomes more and more secluded.

Lord Asriel has betrayed her, and he might do it again if the situation begs for it.

She looks at him, at his blue eyes that are arrogant and self-assured, and finds something suppressed beneath this facade. It is fear. Fear that she might reject him.

And she decides.

When — if — the time ever comes, she will be prepared. Because she will never trust him; not really. And her guard will never be down.

Slowly and hesitantly, she raises her own hand and puts it in his.

A grin lights up his face as he grips onto her hand, thus sealing the deal.

In the background, sounds of chatter and footfalls approach the newly formed team, and Lyra instantly panics at the thought of being discovered.

But Lord Asriel, still quite proficient at deceit, smoothly says, “Do you think you could still fit in the chest?”

“The chest?” repeats Lyra, not without some reserve. She has definitely gained a good few inches in height during the past years, and the idea of the stuffy closet sounds entirely too claustrophobic now.

Of course, however, Lord Asriel disregards all her reservations as he pushes her towards it. “I'm certain you’ll be just fine,” he says lightly.

Once she is inside, he closes the lid, but not before giving her a faint smile. “Keep your eyes and ears open. Though I’m sure you don’t need me to remind you.”

As the scholars and the new Master enter, and Lord Asriel prepares to share his findings with them, Lyra is suddenly transported to the body of a twelve year old girl whose chest swells with pride at the sight of her beloved uncle delivering a fascinating presentation.

Never mind that he is not her uncle. And never mind that she can no longer tell if his findings are half-truths or unfinished lies. After all, he doesn’t trust his audience.

But when his eyes skirt to her general direction, she somehow knows that whatever he is saying at the moment must be true.

And she hates how easily she falls into admiring that well-constructed image of him that will seemingly never, ever die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't be the only one who sorely wished that Lord Asriel was in The Secret Commonwealth, right?  
> Poor Lyra was so painfully alone in that book -- time to fix it!  
> Things are admittedly bleak between the two right now but it does get better.
> 
> Please do let me know if you like the concept behind the fic or if you're interested in more? ♡
> 
> And if you wanna chat/scream about HDM, you can find me on Tumblr (state-of-ambivalence). I've also made an edit for this fic. ^^


	3. Orange lilies

The dining halls of St Sophia's are as one might expect them to be on an early morning of a weekday; clamorous and lively, yet somehow austere — this manifests as a disparity between the aged, lifeless foundation of its stonewalls, and the ever-rising tide of the emotions and aspirations of its students.

Yet Lyra feels herself removed from the wave. She is a nebulous cloud of smoke, rising in its suffocating intensity as dread consumes her, and descending into nonexistence once the fire becomes a speck of an ember, and all she has left is a faraway corner of her mind, where she can simply… _not_ be.

“If we had to wake up so early, then we might as well eat,” Pan says in a grumble. He sits beside her, but not close enough. Whereas most daemons would draw warmth from their humans on this cool day, he prefers to sit on the frigid metal of a chair handle.

Lyra sighs. The dry boiled egg has been cracked, but not eaten, and the tea is now abysmally cold. She bites onto a piece of toast instead.

Conversations are never easy between her and Pan anymore. Every word requires a huge effort to be drawn out, and the aftertaste is always bitter as true meanings are hardly ever conveyed.

But she must tell him about what happened last night.

Even now, the simple memory of the steely resolve behind Lord Asriel’s gaze and the warmth of his hand as they sealed their deal makes her heart quicken its pace.

She clenches and unclenches her hand to rid it of its tremor, and leans in closer to her daemon. “Pan,” she calls quietly.

At length, he comes to her, perching on her shoulder where she can whisper to him at greater ease.

“I went to the retiring room yesterday,” she begins.

And, surprised, he interrupts, “The retiring room?”

“I had to get some of the rosewater the steward showed us—“

“But didn’t he give us a vial?”

Hesitating for a second, she confesses in an even quieter voice, “I might have lost it—“

“Lost it?!”

Exasperated, she raises the intensity of her whispers, “Oh, Pan, do stop interrupting me, will you? It was in my closet one morning, and the next day, it wasn’t. I suspect someone took it when they were searching for Hassall's luggage.”

Pan is silent, but his silence is not without reproach. He spares a moment for her to catch onto whatever he is feeling, and then says, “Did you manage to take another vial, then?”

“Here is the tricky part.” Lyra takes a sip of the bitter, cold tea. “I couldn’t find any because… Lord Asriel had the last remaining vessel.”

The fur at the nape of his neck stands on end, and his claws dig almost painfully into her shoulder.

“He wouldn’t give it to me…”

“Typical,” he bites out.

“… But he offered to share it.”

Here, he turns his head quickly to her in surprise. “Share?”

Lyra takes another sip of her tea, and as calmly as possible, though not without a tremble in her voice, she says, “He asked me to work with him. I accepted.”

“ _Work_ with him?” Pan repeats, incredulous. “Lyra, you do remember who this man is? What he did?”

Tiredly, she says, “I have no other choice, Pan. I’m getting nowhere on my own. At this point I’d rather take risks than remain stagnant.”

Again, he says nothing, but lets his disapproval be communicated by his silence instead.

The quiet allows her to reflect, her eyes distant and sad. “And for all we know, he might…”

“Might what?” Pan asks, just as sad.

“I don’t know,” she whispers.

For a fleeting moment — so fleeting that they almost deny it happened at all — Pan brushes his soft head against her neck, and Lyra allows her eyelids to fall closed in appreciation for the silent comfort.

But then the chatter around her becomes less sporadic and more _directed_ , so to speak. The girls whisper conspiratorially and giggle, and Lyra instantly knows that there is now a ripe source for gossip.

Lyra opens her eyes, and sees none other than Lord Asriel striding down the hall to reach the table at the very end, where the scholars and the Headmistress are seated. Stelmaria is faithfully by his side, and the two of them all but reduce the expansive hall to a small, stuffy room by their sheer presence.

She hears the whispers as her eyes remain glued to him.

_“Isn't that Lord Asriel?”_

_“They say he came back from the dead—"_

_“He's rather scary, wouldn’t you say…?”_

_“Oh, but I’d have him teach me over our scholars any day! Can’t promise that I’d focus on any word he says, though — I’d only stare at him!”_

_“He's Lyra’s father, but I hear he disowned her — he even had her take another name!”_

_“D’you know he’s killed people? I once heard he even killed a child!”_

If he hears any of those words, then she must commend him for appearing so dispassionate. Not only that, but his confidence and self-assurance remain unwavering.

Lord Asriel passes her by, and she catches the fleeting glance that he spares her from the corner of his eye. Her heart lurches. She still doesn’t know why he inspires such anxiety in her whenever he addresses or regards her.

The Headmistress stands from her seat, bemused, and makes towards the Jordan College scholar. He talks to her with such charm and strength of character that Lyra has to remind herself that it is not only brute force that has helped him achieve what wants.

Then the Headmistress looks her way, and Lyra furrows her eyebrows.

“They're talking about us,” whispers Pan.

Unfortunately for Lyra, she can only strain her ears so much, and the only thing that she makes out is the cadence of their voices, but none of the words. Lord Asriel is calm and convincing; the Headmistress is uncertain and skeptical.

But eventually, something in the old woman gives, and her features relax into an assured smile, and she nods in concession. Even _she_ can be won over by Lord Asriel’s charms.

There is only a faint glimmer in his eyes to signify his pleasure with the outcome of whatever took place as he turns around. Lyra quickly occupies herself with her egg in pretense of disinterest.

Yet she senses his presence as he passes her by again, making her tense up instantly. He knocks once on the table before her, though he neither slows down nor looks at her. It’s an obvious message for her to follow.

“Don't go immediately,” instructs Pan. “Wait for a few minutes.”

And she agrees with him. For whatever reason, she doesn’t want anyone to associate her departure with her following after Lord Asriel, even if it’s true.

From across the table, Miriam, a friendly acquaintance, calls for Lyra’s attention. “Lyra!” she says, delighted eyes sparkling with interest. “Was that really your father?”

“He’s…” Lyra thinks hard and fails to find a title that befits him. She makes do with an explanation. “I’m much more of a child of Jordan College in its entirety. Lord Asriel brought me there is all.”

Miriam furrows her eyebrows, confused and disappointed. “Oh… is that really all?”

“More or less,” Lyra shrugs, averting her gaze. “We don’t even share the same name.”

“I thought that was because you got… estranged for whatever reason.”

 _Disowned_ is the word that she is searching for, but she is too polite to say it. And although Lyra would very much like to say that _she_ is the one who cut off all ties with Lord Asriel, she bites her tongue and gives a strained smile.

Sensing the tension in the air, Miriam sits up straight. “I'm sorry, did I say something?”

“No, not at all,” Lyra is quick to reassure. “It's just that it’s interesting to hear what rumors have been circulating.”

“The rumors are there because you’re so mysterious,” Miriam says, smiling. “If you don’t fill in the gaps, someone else is bound to!”

Frankly, Lyra doesn’t see why everyone can’t mind their own business. But she is unlikely to change the status quo with her observation, and she is too tired to argue.

She suffices with a faint, “Suppose so.” And she makes to stand up. “I've got to go; Dr. Lieberson has promised to lend me a book on the English-Levantine trade of oils and spices.”

“Oh, well — don’t be late! Lecture starts in half an hour.”

Lyra gives her a grin as she secures her satchel around her shoulder, and with Pan gripping onto the lapel of her coat, she exits the hall on swift feet.

The wind that greets her is tumultuous, and the sky promises of a midday shower — it is a beautiful fusion of stormy gray, deep blue, and bright white. Already a few large raindrops have fallen onto her head, but their descent stops as early as it began.

“He's probably in his lab,” says Pan.

A thrill shoots up Lyra’s spine against her volition. She has never seen Lord Asriel’s laboratory; not because of a lack of interest or trial, but because all of her schemes to enter it were met with failure when she was a child.

And now not only can she go in, but she is _expected_ to, at none other than Lord Asriel’s request.

She breathes out shakily, hoping that Pan would dismiss this as a reaction to her exertion, but of course, he knows her thoughts and feelings as well as she knows his own.

It’s useless to keep this concern inside, and so she quietly says, “I thought I outgrew my desire to know him. And be known by him.”

Pan’s clutch on her coat tightens. “It's alright. You can’t really control what you feel.”

“I know, I just… it’s bothersome. It’s not logical.”

“Not everything has to be logical.”

“Some things must be,” she replies wearily. “And not seeking the approval of a heartless man is one of them.”

Before Pan can reply, and just when they have reached the department of experimental theology, the Master of Jordan College appears in front of them, looking falsely surprised with his effortlessly graceful posture and empty, sympathetic gaze.

“Lyra,” greets the Master. It is friendly, but she knows it to be the exact opposite.

“Good morning, Dr. Hammond,” she says, a polite smile playing on her lips.

With a hand atop the back of her shoulder, he compels her to walk with him across the campus. “Have you begun your preparations for vacating your rooms?”

_Straight to the point, then._

“Not yet,” she admits, a trickle of anxiety washing over her. “I've been busy writing my final essays.”

English roses fill the small flowerbeds around them, and they remind Lyra of where she needs to be at the moment, wrong as they are and wrong as her situation is.

“See to it that you begin shortly,” he instructs with a gentle voice that does nothing to make his words sound less cruel. “I have already assigned two boys to your bedroom, and I expect them to arrive within a couple of weeks.”

“Right,” she says with a small voice. When he gives a tight smile and prepares to leave, she calls him back, “Dr. Hammond.” She only continues once she has his attention again. “Did Lord Asriel talk to you about all of this? About my situation?”

He levels her with a look that she absolutely despises — one that makes her feel foolishly naive and ignorant. “Dear girl, Lord Asriel has no say in your accommodations. He has already tested the benevolence of the college, and continues to test its patience with his heretical experiments. His only saving grace comes in the form of scholastic sanctuary.”

Without another word, he leaves.

Lyra lets out a faint snort. “Well. It was worth the shot.”

“Come on, Lord Asriel is waiting,” says Pan.

She nods before entering the department. Unlike the depressing structure of St Sophia’s, Jordan College prides itself with an architectural antiquity that makes it grand rather than outdated. The rich rosewood of its walls and columns are polished, and framed photographs of esteemed scholars fill up the empty spaces. There are three-dimensional models of solar systems belonging to this galaxy and others; and a steam-powered engine propels the continuous movement of a simulated model of particle collision. Clockwork keeps everything running in seamless harmony. A true scientific wonderland.

Lord Asriel’s laboratory is at the very end of the last floor. Lyra hurries up the stairs and catches the questioning looks of a few scholars, which she deftly ignores.

When she finally pries the doors open, Lord Asriel turns to look at her, his face ill-amused and impatient.

“You certainly took your time,” he says dryly.

Lyra takes off the satchel and throws it on top of a table. “I wanted to finish my breakfast,” she lies lightly.

He thins his lips.

Disregarding him, Lyra turns her attention to the hitherto unseen laboratory, whose every crevice is lined by smooth, dark wood. A small staircase leads to an array of bookshelves that run across the upper parts of two walls, and on the ground level, there are three work benches—one of which is designated for chemical tests; one for mechanical setups; and one—the largest bench—for elementary work on particles and their interactions with different fields.

On the far corner of the room, two couches face each other, flanking the fireplace. A desk for writing is also nearby.

“I understand the term is almost over?” Lord Asriel interrupts her inspection, locking the door behind her.

“Today is the last day for lectures. I only have to submit some essays and I’m done,” she explains absentmindedly. With her index, she traces an odd device that she suspects is used for measuring the interaction of particles with a field of some sort.

Lord Asriel taps her once on the wrist as he passes by, and she drops her hand, disgruntled.

But then she schools her features, as something in that moment felt uncomfortably familiar.

“I see Pan is here,” he comments.

Pan doesn’t look at him, engaged as he is in tracing every movement Stelmaria makes. She nears him, purring, and attempts to greet him by pressing her forehead against his, but he quickly jumps backwards, back arched and teeth ready.

Lord Asriel turns away from the two daemons with a quiet hum, and, morbidly curious, Lyra wonders about the thoughts that run through his head.

With his back to her, he says, “Make sure you never go anywhere without each other. If you get in trouble for being seen without your daemon, I won’t help.”

“Nothing new, really.”

He gives her a look that suggests that he is not amused by her attitude, but his expression assumes neutrality when he notices that her reactions are not driven by malice, but by sadness.

She is distant. Her mind is a million miles away, and her soul is barren with loneliness. The dark circles beneath her eyes are even more pronounced than his own, and he hardly sleeps more than three hours a night.

But the invisible shields that guard her are so thick and impenetrable. He simply cannot reach her. He suspects that if he touches her, his hand would go right through her, as though she were a hologram instead of a person of flesh and blood.

Lyra has her head bent down as she engages herself with a clockwork contraption, winding its key and absently noting the changes in the device. He approaches her and leans on the bench so that her downturned gaze can catch his form, even if it were simply his shadow.

“I don’t like this,” he confesses quietly. His eyes stare straight ahead and his arms are crossed over his chest. “I don’t like what we’ve become.”

“Neither do I,” she says, fighting off the urge to edge away from him. His presence engulfs her, and while she might have once found it exhilarating, she now simply feels suffocated. “But we’re past fixing it.”

“Are we?”

“Yes.”

When she looks up to meet his eyes, she dares him — _begs him?_ — to argue against her position. Both their gazes are intense in their resolve, trading pride for stubbornness and back again. Hurt softens their dispositions, but they share the same blood which refuses to yield to any external influence.

Much to her non-surprise, Lord Asriel is the first to look away; to break their flimsy struggle against those self-imposed borders; to give up the fight for reconnection.

He lets out a cynical laugh. “Right. How needlessly sentimental.”

Glaring at him as she swallows the bile in her throat, Lyra says, “Exactly. It’s needless.” She hopes he failed to notice how her voice broke at the last syllable.

“And you’re a paragon of logic now, aren’t you, Lyra?”

She squares her shoulders at his challenging tone. “I pride myself on my search for the truth in its most unadulterated, rational form, yes.”

But he lets out a short laugh, and her anger rises, red-cheeked as she is at his condescension.

“Rationality and truth sound like they belong together, don’t they?” he muses. “At first glance, they do. But then you dig deeper and realize they can be oxymorons. Rationality as a tool for finding the truth? How very limiting.”

“It shouldn’t be limiting at all,” she counters. “It should be _freeing_ and enlightening! It… looks past every fancy that we romanticized into existence and sees what actually _is_!” Then, she simmers down, her confusion taking hold of her. “I thought… you’d share this opinion. Have you read Talbot’s and Brande’s works?”

Here, he scoffs in distaste. “I skimmed through their books and couldn’t bring myself to finish a sentence without being inebriated in some way or form. Raging lunatics. _No_ scientific credibility or empirical proof to back up their assertions. They rely on philosophical blather to seduce the ill-educated and pretentious.”

She steps back as if stung. Pan looks at him with a new-found respect.

He continues, “It's embarrassing, really, how any respectable publishing house would allow their writings to be released for public consumption.” Stopping himself mid-rant, he turns to Lyra. “Don't tell me you believe a single word they wrote.”

Eyes glittering with embarrassed, yet righteous, affront, she says, “I suppose you’re too set in your ways to consider any new concept. I don’t know why I’m surprised at all.”

He gapes in astonishment but then closes his eyes and runs a hand over his face. Then he looks at her. “We can discuss this later. I believe you have a lecture soon, yes?”

“Yes,” she lets out, still upset.

“Then let me tell you what happened earlier in the dining hall.”

This garners her interest, and she looks at him expectantly.

“I had you enroll in Dame Hannah Relf’s course on the inter-particular interactions of Dust.”

Lyra’s heart skips a beat and she stares in awe at Lord Asriel, who says this as one might speak of the weather forecast for the day. “But… that course is for _doctoral_ students. And it’s nowhere near my specialization. Surely I can’t?”

He raises an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware ' _can’t'_ was in your dictionary at all. At any rate, if you’re going to work with me, then you need to know this information, as I don’t have the time to teach you everything.”

Dazed, she can only nod. This course has always been highly coveted by her, and she certainly wouldn’t make it a point to complain.

“Dame Hannah will discuss the details with you.” He has already begun setting up his latest experiment, and Lyra can feel herself withering from his awareness. “You may go now.”

Pan climbs onto her shoulder and she takes her satchel. “Should I… come tonight?”

Without looking at her, he curtly says, “Yes.”

She swallows. So many things are left unsaid; so many worries are left unshared, and their weight is building up on her once again.

Lyra contemplates saying something before she leaves; a ‘goodbye' or a ‘see you late’, but then decides against it.

As she unlocks the door to leave, she doesn’t notice the mournful look that Stelmaria affords Pan and her. Pan, too, doesn’t bid Stelmaria goodbye.

Once the two of them are gone, Stelmaria stalks up to Lord Asriel and nudges his leg with her forehead.

“I miss them,” she quietly admits.

He doesn’t say anything, though he runs his fingers through her fur, and heaves a heavy sigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, everyone is a mess. It hurts to see them like this, but I guess we'll just have to be patient with them, no?  
> Thanks for reading! Please do share your thoughts and whether you're interested in a continuation ( the fandom has gone so quiet 😔) ♡


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